Circsumv, Sircumv, The Old Reach Around
by hiding duh
Summary: Michael/Lindsay. Who the hell let Tobias go on Nancy Grace?


**Title**: Circsumv... sircumv... The Old Reach Around  
**Fandom**: Arrested Development  
**Characters/Pairings**: Slight Michael/Lindsay, otherwise canon.  
**Summary**: Who the hell let Tobias go on Nancy Grace?  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Word Count**: 2300  
**Notes**: I apologize for even trying to play in the AD sandbox.

* * *

Michael Bluth returned home to find it still standing.

Which was more than could be said for the secret house in Cabo.

"Yeah, who builds a Bluth house in a hurricane area?" he mumbled to himself, rushing through the kitchen.

Lindsay, who'd been nap-meditating on the couch, opened her eyes. "Michael?"

Michael cringed. "Lindsay."

She sat up, swaying a little. "How could you just ditch us like that yesterday? After all we've done for you!"

"_To_ me, you mean," he replied, tilting his head. "And that was a week ago, Lindsay."

"A week, wow, really?" she mused, glancing at her bottle of Teamocil. "Where were you anyway?"

"Cabo," Michael replied. "Mexico."

She yawned, scratching her head. "You had time to go to _both_, Michael?" She inclined her head slightly, muttering to herself, "Well, I guess time flows slower in South America."

For his part, Michael squinted. "South A... never mind. Cabo's _in_ Mexico, Lindsay."

Lindsay waved him off, padding over to the kitchen and re-collapsing into the nearest chair. "Oh, please, Michael, like I don't know where Cabo is."

She didn't.

Undettered, Michael poured himself a glass of orange juice, then promptly spit it out, wiping his mouth. "Ugh, anyway. I was thinking, as the Cabo house folded in on me, that maybe this was _finally_ the right time for me to really take over the company."

Lindsay seemed to be listening, or napping, so he continued, "With Mom out of the way, I mean." He paused. "Lindsay?"

"Yeah, great, sounds fantastic," she replied, clearly disinterested, picked up a random magazine, then looked up with an expectant smile. "Oh, yeah, now that you're back, can you do me a tiny little favor?"

Suspicious, Michael narrowed one eye. "What?"

"Marry me."

"Yeah, I'm not doing that."

"It's not _fair_, Michael," she whined. "How come Maeby gets to be married and I don't?"

"Because, Lindsay, she—wait, what?"

"Maeby's married."

Michael stared for a bit. "Wh... no, you know what? This is so _typical_, Lindsay," he broke into a rant, pointing an accusing finger at her bored face. "It's about time you take responsibility for your own daughter, okay? You'd never see George Michael getting surprise-married, and you know why?"

"Because he's already married?"

"That's right, because he's... what?"

"Maeby married George Michael," Lindsay deadpanned. She flipped a page, then added, "Oh, yeah, I'm going to need your help to either annul their marriage or pick out a toaster." She paused, glancing at the magazine in her lap. "Do people still give toasters?" She rose quickly and bounded across the room. "Oh, god, Michael, I'm so old! You have to marry me!"

"This can't be legal," Michael muttered to himself, peeling her fingers off his tie. "Where's their marriage certificate? Or license? Or arrest warrant?"

Lindsay ignored him, fluttering past the kitchen counter. "If you ask me, it's kind of romantic."

"I didn't ask you, and no, it's—"

"Oh, loosen up, Michael!" she interrupted, waving him off. "It's just like that time when we were sixteen and I taught you how to French kiss—"

"What? That never happened, Lindsay."

"That wasn't us?"

"No, that was a movie," he said. "Look, we need to deal with our children first."

"Oh, yeah. I guess it would be a little weird if I had to explain that my step-son, who is also my nephew, is married to my daughter." She paused to scrunch up her face. "Yeah, how's this gonna work?"

Michael gave her a horrified look, jaw slack.

"You're right, Michael," she agreed. "Annulment first."

To Michael's relief, the phone went off. He picked it up, squinting warily. "How did we not get disconnected yet?"

"_Turn on the TV, Michael._"

Frowning, he exhaled into the handle, switching to speakerphone. "Mom? What? Where are you?"

"Oh, it's _terrible_, Michael!" Lucille went on. "We're on Mad Money again! And they've invented a category below SELL. And that bleep, Lucille Austero, has been sniffing around my—"

Michael took a moment to process the information, then hung up.

"Lindsay, has Lucille 2 contacted you about your shares while I was gone?"

Lindsay seemed to be analyzing the TV remote as though she hadn't used it before. "No, I haven't heard from her since she broke up with GOB. I just assumed she was..." she smiled triumphantly as the TV flickered on, "...getting treated for whatever she'd caught from—oh, hi, GOB."

Hesitant, GOB peeked around the corner. "Michael. You're back. Where's... George Michael?" He shuffled into the living room, eyes darting around. "Not that—not that I'm worried—he's—he's not—heh, you gotta let the kid get in a punch or four sometimes, you know—" He rounded another corner, disappearing from sight.

"How do we still have cable?" Michael wondered, more to himself, then grabbed the remote from his sister's hands. "New plan, Lindsay. Lucille first, annulment second."

Lindsay shrugged. "Why can't GOB just bleep her again?"

Michael cringed, scraping his tongue across the roof of his mouth. "Okay, let's not add prostitution—"

"I'm just saying, Michael," Lindsay argued, raising a well-groomed eyebrow. "You're the only one she hasn't gone after." She looked to the side, then realized. "And _me_. Oh my god, do you think—"

"No."

"We could solve all this by getting married," she tried again, sidling up to him. "I'm pretty sure if you marry me, my shares will transfer to you, and Lucille 2 will lose hers. Come on, Michael!"

"...that's not how shares work, Lindsay," he muttered, flipping channels in search of Mad Money. "And besides, even with both our shares..." he trailed off, cocking his head. "Is that _Tobias_?"

Lindsay pushed him out of the way, climbing over the sofa to get closer to the TV. "What! When did he get a job? How _dare_ he! Now that I've finally left him for you!"

Michael took one look at the screen and the little corner square featuring Tobias, then said, "Well, good news, Lindsay. He's on Nancy Grace. He's not getting paid." Blanching, he strode forward, turning the volume up.

"Mr. Funky, are you saying—"

"Fünke."

"...Mr. Funky, I'm just curious: where was your _wife_ during all this?" Nancy Grace drawled, flicking a pencil and glaring suspiciously at the camera.

"My wife? ... I don't... oh, Lindsay!" Tobias gushed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Well, Mr. Grace, if I may be so bold as to object to this line of questioning; I was under the impression I'd been summoned here to discuss my blisteringly raw journey inside my father-in-law."

Nancy Grace seemed to be listening to her earpiece, then addressed the camera. "My producers are telling me you're talking about an episode of _Scandalmakers_." She squeezed the pencil, nostrils flaring slightly. "_No_, Mr. Funky, you're here to answer questions about your daughter. _How_ does a parent consciously allow his young child to be _exploited_ by the evils of Hollywood?

Tobias smiled brightly. "Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Grace!"

Exasperated, Nancy Grace tossed the pencil aside. "Mr. Funky, _where_ is your wife?"

Tobias seemed to think for a moment, then answered cheerfully, "Oh, I think she may be in Cabo."

"And why, exactly, is she in Cabo, while her daughter is slaving away on this dreadful movie about your horrible family? What could she possibly be doing?"

"Her brother," supplied Tobias helpfully.

Michael shut the TV off.

"New plan, Lindsay. We hire a PR agent, then deal with Lucile 2, _then_ buy a toaster."

"Get an annulment, Michael."

"That, too," he rubbed his face, slumping into the sofa next to Lindsay. "Where's Maeby?"

Lindsay had the decency to look sheepish, clicking her tongue. "School?"

"She's not in school, Lindsay."

"Yeah, well, where's George Michael?"

Michael jumped up. "I left him in the cab!" He dug around in his pocket, then dialed his cell phone. "Hey, buddy," he began carefully. "It's okay to come in now. What? Tasting colors? Boy, yeah. No, that's not good."

By the time George Michael ambled in, Michael had prepared a glass of water, remarking, "Wow, really? How are the pipes still working?"

"Aunt Lindsay!" George Michael greeted happily, arms dangling by his sides.

Lindsay offered Michael a smug smile, patting George Michael's forearm. "Welcome back, George Michael! Remember how we had that talk about me filling the hole your mother left?"

"Unfortunately."

"Not now, Lindsay," Michael interrupted. "George Michael, why didn't you tell me you married Maeby?"

George Michael took a jittery step back, fidgeting with his glass of water. "What? No. I mean, yes. Yes. I guess... well, it's California. And we're, I mean, yeah. I married my cousin."

Michael placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "It's okay, buddy. We'll get an annulment and fix this."

"As long as you didn't consummate the marriage, of course," added Lindsay.

"What!" squeaked George Michael, laughing awkwardly. "We didn't, no! I mean, well. Sort of? No, no. Annulment, yeah. I—I guess. Unless we _should_ consummate it? I don't know, maybe we should, just to... no. _No_. Bad George Michael, bad."

"Focus, buddy, okay?"

"Okay."

Michael took a brief moment to contemplate, then tried to arrange his face into a pleasant expression. "You should maybe wait for me upstairs, what do you say?"

George Michael nodded, and dragged himself up the stairs, noting, "That almost sounded like you said Maeby should wait for you upstairs..."

Michael turned to his sister, one eye twitching slightly. "Now we just have to find your daughter."

"Oh, hey, you're back. Great," greeted Maeby in passing, breezing past the living room, carrying a thick manuscript. "Would you rather be played by Ryan O'Neal or Benicio Del Toro, if we have room in the budget for ethnic casting?"

Michael stared at her for a moment.

"Yeah, I hear what you're saying," continued Maeby, pursing her lips. "Benicio's too tall, too skinny. Has all that charisma. I'll have my people grab O'Neal. Guy probably needs lunch money, am I right?" She cleared her throat. "Right."

Lindsay attempted to bristle. "Wait a minute! We have things to discuss, young lady!"

"Don't worry. I got Jennifer Aniston to play you."

Lindsay perked up.

"Who's going to be playing me?" asked GOB, peeking behind a fake bookcase. "I was thinking maybe Tony Wonder or Brad Pitt. Or both. You know, for _magic_ purposes."

Maeby stared up at him, clutching the script to her chest. "Uh, yeah. You're not in the movie."

Temporarily, GOB looked equally saddened and offended, then grinned seductively at his niece. "What do I need to _do_ to be in the movie? If you... catch my meaning?" Off Maeby's blank look, he emphasized his crotch, grumbling, "Do I have to bleep you to get a bleep on this bleep movie—"

Unconcerned, Maeby strolled past him, climbing the stairs. "Sorry, Uncle GOB, but I'm kinda married to George Michael right now."

GOB cocked his head. "Him?"

Lindsay glanced at Michael, then shouted after Maeby, "What kind of toaster do you want?"

In turn, Michael gripped the nearest counter, inhaling deeply. He loosened his tie, and told the nearest relative, "One of you put some shoes on. We have to go see Barry Zuckerkorn."

Lindsay scrambled off the sofa, zooming past him.

"_Not_ to take out a marriage license, Linds—" he shouted to her back, giving up mid-sentence, then swung around to stare at his brother. "GOB, please tell me you didn't do something stupid with your shares."

Mournfully, GOB collapsed onto a bar stool. "Okay."

Michael pretended this was a satisfactory answer, then ushered Lindsay toward the door.

Where Buster was waiting.

"Hi, brother. And fake-sister-mother," he waved, brushing his hook against Michael's nose. "I think I saw Tobias on TV."

Lindsay produced a weird sort of guttural noise, pushing past him.

"It looked fun," Buster told Michael. "I think he called Nancy Grace a man, though."

Michael ignored him, eyes trained on the hook. "Buster, buddy, I'm in a hurry—can we talk tonight? I'm going to need to borrow your shares."

Buster blinked a few times, bringing his hook hand to his chest nervously. "Uh, yeah, okay."

"Great."

The moment the door slammed shut, Buster veered toward GOB.

"I miss Mom," he confided.

"And I bought an elephant," GOB explained, eyes darting to the window. "I don't think the sultan's gonna let me return it."

"Oh."

"What am I going to do, Buster?" GOB growled. "_I_ was going to marry Michael, now that it's legal in California. Or maybe Lindsay. But if they're too busy marrying _each other_..." he continued, voice dripping with disgust. "I'll have to open up that beads shop. And I'm all out of bees."

"Yes, that makes sense," Buster agreed. "What do you think Mom's doing right now?"

"I need to do _something_," GOB continued absentmindedly, one hand curled around the other. "I've got to find a way to get around Michael."

"You want to circumvent him," nodded Buster.

GOB's brows drew together. "Why do I know that word?" He shook it off. "Look, Buster, we have to help each other out; give them the old reach around _together_! You stroke me, I stroke you, do you understand?"

Buster hesitated. "I... guess?"

GOB curled his fists. "We have to go see Lucille 2. "

"Ooh," Buster replied excitedly. "Do you think she knows where Mom is?"

GOB paused. "...yes."

Buster caught his hook on GOB's shirt pocket. "Onward, brother!"


End file.
